Masks
by MarisaRoseheart
Summary: After a while, Hawke thinks, you start to believe your own legends. And sometimes, who you are under the mask isn't so different from the mask itself. Spoilers for endgame; f!Hawke/Fenris, implied Isabela/Bethany. Post-game.
1. Champion

Title: Champion  
>Pairings: f!HawkeFenris, implied Isabela/Bethany  
>Warnings: swearing, endgame spoilers.<br>Summary: Months after she defends the mages, Hawke contemplates going back to Kirkwall and owning up to the title her dead enemy once gave her.

* * *

><p>Back in Kirkwall, if you'd asked Hawke where she saw herself ending up after her days as the Champion, she probably wouldn't have said 'lying on a beach somewhere in Antiva.'<p>

Then again, the Hawke that once lived in Lothering probably wouldn't have predicted she'd even set foot in Kirkwall, either, much less become the most loved (and hated) member of its nobility in anyone's memory.

Yes, the Chantry is out for her blood (at least the White half of it) and that thrice-damned abomination is running amok somewhere south of here – but Hawke is pretty certain she's earned a break, after all that cave-crawling and Qunari-stomping and dragon-slaying and templar-thrashing. But these days she's just content to stay alive, no matter where that might take her. And if it just happens to be on a beautiful, sunny Antivan beach with a beautiful, not-quite-as-sunny elven warrior at her side – well, who could ask for more?

And for a while, it works.

After four or five months, though, she still can't forget.

Even with Fenris at her side, even feeling like she truly _accomplished_ something – even knowing that she could walk away now and no one would think less of her – she's still the Champion, and it's more than a title. It's who she is.

And the Champion in her can't leave this business with the Chantry unresolved.

Niggling doubts are one thing, but the letter Isabela brings her seals the deal.

It doesn't surprise Hawke that the pirate has been keeping tabs on her, although she suspects part of that is Bethany's influence – her sister elected to stay on board Isabela's ship, under pretense of them needing a healer. (And Hawke _really_ doesn't want to think about what Isabela may or may not be doing to her baby sister, so she lets them pretend.)

What _does_ come as a surprise is that when Isabela hands her the bundle of letters, there is one marked with the Seal of Andraste.

Hawke raises an eyebrow at her friend but Isabela only shrugs. "I don't know, either," she says. "Varric asked me to deliver it – and didn't even ask where you were. I should be very offended, really. What does he think I am, a courier service?"

"I doubt it, Izzy," Bethany tells her. "After all, he's seen the… _service_… you perform in the Hanged Man."

Hawke grins; even Fenris cracks a smile. (Although he's been doing that more and more often, lately, so she really should be getting used to it.)

There's a note from Aveline, who is still trying to hold Kirkwall together, and one on heavy, expensive paper from Sebastian – and though they didn't part on the best of terms Hawke suspects he's forgiven her. It wasn't _her_ fault, after all, that Anders murdered Elthina. And she doesn't regret letting him go – he'd been her friend, once, although they hadn't always seen eye-to-eye.

She wonders if the mage rebellion worked out like he wanted it to. Without her help, it might not have worked at all – but then again, that's why she's in this mess to begin with.

Hawke breaks the seal on the Chantry letter.

In the end, it turns out to be exactly what she expected: a missive asking her in no uncertain terms to return to Kirkwall and submit herself to the Chantry's questioning. When she looks up Isabela is watching her.

"There are Seekers all over the Free Marches," the pirate says. "They've taken over your estate, if you'd believe that. I heard they interrogated Varric – and you know he loves to talk."

The four of them share a laugh over that.

But it is the letter from Varric that worries her the most, because it contains only three lines, in Varric's slanting hand.

_I know what it sounds like, but they honestly mean you no harm. At least consider it. Regards, V_

Of the seven years Hawke spent in Kirkwall, six of them were with Varric as her best friend, and she knows his codes by heart. "It's a dangerous business, dealing in information," he'd always said. "Sometimes you have to say things you don't want to. But anything from me, Hawke, well, I'll teach you to read the hidden meanings."

The hidden meanings are always in the close. She'd expected to see 'Best wishes,' the code for _stay away_. It would have made sense, if the Chantry was really out for her blood. And if Varric had actually meant what he said, it would have been 'With love.'

Anything but 'Regards.' 'Regards' means _shit has hit the fan and if you don't get here as soon as possible we're all royally freakin' screwed._ 'Regards' is a death sentence for someone – usually, in the past, whoever was causing Varric or Merrill or Bethany or any of their people grief. 'Regards' meant Hawke showed up at the Hanged Man (or other specified destination) armed to the teeth and ready to kick ass.

But from half a continent away, 'regards' means next to nothing. She has no way of knowing what's going on back home – not with the Chantry breathing so hard down Varric's neck that the only hint he can slip her is 'Regards'.

Bethany has one more thing to say as she hugs her sister goodbye. "Don't," she whispers, soft enough that Fenris and Isabela can't hear. "I know what you're thinking, so don't do it."

Hawke gives her best devilish smirk. "I haven't the foggiest idea what you mean." And with that, she waves goodbye. Her dreams that night are muddled and worrisome, but she finds comfort in the warmth of Fenris' skin and the wrap of his arms around her.

* * *

><p>She is an early riser, but somehow Fenris always wakes before her. The sun is just barely breaking over the horizon in shades of pink and orange when she shrugs on a tunic over her smallclothes and pads outside their borrowed cottage to find him.<p>

She has to pause for a moment at the sight of him, bare-chested in the early morning light. Pinkish scars, some old, others new, are woven in with the delicate lines of lyrium over dense, compact muscle and lithe sinew. It's still a wonder, to her, that such a man has followed her to the ends of the earth. His scars speak monuments to her – of a wild strength smothered by brutality and cruelty but never extinguished. There is a feral beauty to him – proud and unwavering despite a harsh past.

It has been less than a year since Danarius' death, less than a year since he has been really, truly free; it breaks Hawke's heart to think of taking that away from him, but she can't sit idly any longer.

Steeling herself, she goes to his side, looking out over the water.

"Made up your mind, have you?" he asks, and she wonders just how it is he knows her so well when it seems like sometimes she doesn't even know herself.

"Yes," she says. It feels good to say it out loud. "People are getting hurt because of me – however indirectly," she adds hastily, as she suspects Fenris is going to pull a _not your fault_ or something along those lines. "And I can't just pretend like they're not. Not while I can still help them. Even… even if I want to."

He nods. "I expected nothing less."

"It's not just my decision, though," she continues, still not able to meet his eyes. "I mean, you don't have to – well, if you didn't want to, I'd understand – I know how you feel about mages, and –"

He cuts her off before her rambling can get any more out of hand. "_Hawke_." His hand comes up to cup her cheek, gently turning her to face him. "I believe I've told you this once already. Nothing is going to keep me from you."

He kisses her then, and the weight that settled on her shoulders the moment she opened Varric's letter dissipates. She loses herself in the gentle slide of his lips, of his fingers in her hair; her hands automatically seek out the sharp jut of his shoulders, careful of the sensitive ridges of lyrium carved into his back.

And it feels a little bit like an ending – like the last of something beautiful – but she tells herself she will not let this be the end. No matter what. So many possibilities have been stolen from her – a peaceful, farming life in Lothering stolen by the Blight, a family stolen by an ogre and a crazed blood mage, a hero's reward stolen by Meredith and the templars. She _refuses _to let the Chantry take this, the joy and the ease of this moment, with Fenris beside her and her worries temporarily scattered.

Later, when the worries return, she does the only thing she knows will calm herself – she plots.

It takes a few days of work and a considerable amount of relying on shaky sources (since her most trusted source is under Chantry watch,) but eventually she manages to come up with an entrance worthy of a Champion.

She blames Varric for her inability to do anything without making a show out of it.

It turns out that Divine Justinia V _is_, in fact, in Kirkwall, along with a considerable delegation of Orlesian nobility – and in Hawke's experience Orlesians can't do anything by halves. Sure enough, the Summersend Ball – usually extravagant by Free Marcher standards – is scheduled this year to be a full-blown, international, multiple-day soiree, culminating in a masquerade ball on the final night.

Hawke thinks of Duke Prosper's wyvern hunt and allows herself a vicious smile. With any luck, this will be much more memorable. After all, the invitations went out to 'all nobility of the southern regions of Thedas,' and unless Hawke is _quite _mistaken, she still retains her title.

And since they went to such trouble to invite her, Hawke figures it would be poor manners to not show up.

* * *

><p>Her first mistake is letting Isabela design costumes.<p>

To be fair, Hawke had only limited her as far as modesty was concerned. Isabela's fashion sense might be acceptable to her, but Hawke would prefer to at least wear pants (although Isabela does talk her into a 'real dress'.)

Isabela seems to have taken the invitation as a challenge: to discover what costumes would scandalize the visiting Chantry the most. Thankfully Hawke had remembered to save the final word for herself, and the ideas of Qunari, Andrastian cultists, and Tevinter magisters are quickly thrown out (the latter if only for Fenris' sake.)

But when Izzy suggests Dalish gods, Hawke figures it's just ballsy enough to work. And goodness knows there are enough of them to find costumes for all their group – herself and Fenris, Izzy and Bethany, Aveline, Merrill, and Varric. Hawke debates letting Sebastian in on it before Bethany reminds her that the former prince would feel honor-bound to alert the Chantry to their presence too soon – but Isabela still insists he be dressed to match, and even sets aside a costume for Zevran, who she claims is 'an honorary member of the 'Hawke pantheon'.

Isabela and Bethany spend the next two weeks altering dresses and sewing tunics and detailing masks. Hawke is politely declined her offers of help (for reasons she completely understands – she may be a fierce warrior and even a decent cook but she can't stitch a straight line to save her life.)

Instead, she and Fenris are instructed in the latest dance steps from Orlais, Ferelden, the Free Marches and anywhere else Isabela can think of. By the time the costumes are finished and the 'pantheon' accounted for, Hawke is so impatient to get moving that she practically bounces rather than walks around the tiny beach cottage.

Her second mistake is deciding that Isabela's ship is a tad too obvious, and they should take a land route to Kirkwall. Zevran meets them on the way and Hawke had forgotten how easy he is to flirt with; Fenris sends the poor elf his famous death-glare through the entire trip. To his credit, it never fazes Zevran.

(As amusing as it is, Hawke makes a mental note to never again travel in a party with two sneaky rogues who are just as flirtatious as she is.)

Sneaking into Kirkwall, however, proves simple with three rogues, not to mention a warrior who can walk through walls. Between the five of them they make it to Merrill's home in the alienage – the most inconspicuous place they could think of – without incident.

Hawke is somewhat shocked to find Kirkwall crawling with even more templars than had roamed the streets under Meredith's authority. Hawke feels a rush of sympathy for the mages before remembering that there _are_ no Circles anymore.

The tiny elf is beyond ecstatic to see them, and spends most of their time babbling about cleaning and not having anything to drink and other such nonsense. Hawke allows herself a grin; it's good to be home.

The evening of the masquerade arrives all too soon, and Hawke grudgingly allows Isabela and Merrill and Bethany to festoon her with enough satin and gold and ribbons and feathers to weigh down a high dragon. Her hair is combed and beaten into submission and soon enough Hawke barely recognizes herself – which, she admits, is sort of the point. Far too much of the plan relies on she and Fenris not being noticed until the appropriate moment.

When they finish with Fenris, however, even Hawke has trouble telling that it's him. Bethany's design couples domino mask with hood and cowl in order to hide the telltale lyrium veins trailing over his jaw and throat. But there's no mistaking the familiar glint in those deep jade eyes. Fenris bows gracefully and extends his arm, and Hawke takes it almost giddily.

"Let's go make an impression," she says.

* * *

><p>Varric does not like being away from Bianca.<p>

Especially not around all these Orlesians; it makes his trigger finger itchy. And he's sure Bianca feels excluded, all un-costumed and left at home. She does so love the Viscount's Keep, and he's sure she'd like it all decked out in drapes and livery.

He also does not like Isabela's costume for him. He suspects it's Rivaini's idea of a joke – pairing him with Aveline as his 'twin.' Daisy had assured him that Dirthamen – his costume for the night – is very fitting; they call him the Secret-Keeper, after all, which Varric has to admit is appealing. But Dirthamen apparently has a twin brother, and Isabela thought it would be very funny to dress Aveline as Falon'Din (since Aveline had insisted upon no dresses and there were no female goddesses left.)

The Seeker has assured him that Hawke won't be harmed tonight, but Varric is still on edge. He hopes Hawke got his message and took it to heart. She's the only one who Varric thinks can actually convince the Divine not to march on the mages gathering in Amaranth under Blondie's banner.

He scans the crowd one more time – difficult, considering his height, but not impossible – and spots a familiar mane of black hair, albeit contained by silver combs and pins. _Hello, Hawke_, he thinks. _And they thought posting guards would be enough to discourage you._

He saunters over, taking in the costume – Mythal, if he's not mistaken and Daisy's lectures are worth anything. The Champion is bedecked in ivory silk and gleaming silver, moonstones glittering at her wrists and throat and ears. Mythal, the All-Mother, goddess of the moon. At her side is the elf, of course, although his face and tattoos are carefully concealed under cloth-of-gold and topaz – Elger'nan. The sun and the moon. Even Varric has to admit they make a very poetic couple.

"I've got to say, Marian," he says, careful to use her first name since hardly anyone knows it, "dressing us all in themed costumes and then decking yourself out as the leader is hardly your most subtle plan yet."

"You think so?" she asks, laughter in her voice, and Varric eats his words for the first time he can remember – because when she turns, amber eyes glitter behind her ivory mask rather than blue.

"_Rivaini?_" Varric hisses.

"Of course, you silly goose," Isabela chuckles. "You really don't think she would have been _that_ stupid, do you? Hawke loves her drama, but she's not daft."

Varric squints at Isabela's partner, baffled, before the elf takes pity on him and pulls up just the front of his mask – it's the Antivan.

"Well I'll be damned," Varric says. "She got me."

"That was the idea," Zevran tells him.

Varric searches the room once more. "Where is she, then?"

"Waiting to make her entrance," Isabela tells him, then tugs the Antivan's arm. "Come on, Zev, let's go be a good diversion."

Together the two of them sweep up the stairs towards the heralds and the audience hall they're using as a ballroom, and Varric hurries after them – there's no way he's going to miss _this_.

Isabela introduces herself and Zevran as the Champion of Kirkwall and Ser Fenris Amell (which makes Varric chuckle,) even doing a passable imitation of Hawke's voice and accent. The herald jumps visibly, but turns to the audience hall as he's expected to, repeating the names loud enough for all to hear.

A hush falls over the ballroom.

"Seize them," cries a templar – Varric recognizes the voice as Cullen's – and all of a sudden the room is full of the clanking of plate mail and the shouts of Seekers. Divine Justinia stands up from the viscount's throne – the seat of honor – and advances on the chaos, Cassandra and the red-haired Seeker flanking her. Varric barely has time to skip out of the way before Isabela and Zevran – still masked – are completely surrounded.

"Reveal yourself, Champion," Justinia commands, and Isabela and Zevran exchange looks before pulling off their masks, revealing not the Champion and her lover but a notorious pirate captain and a wanted assassin.

"Well, if you insist," calls a voice, and every head in the ballroom turns to the fore of the room.

Hawke is reclining upon the viscount's throne as if she's been there all night, resplendent in red and gold satin, her mask feathered with what is unmistakably a hawk's plumage. At her side stands Fenris with practiced ease, clad all in black with gleaming silver tracery, cowl pulled down to reveal just a hint of lyrium under a black-furred wolf's mask.

The symbolism makes Varric want to weep for joy and dramatic irony. Fen'harel, the Dread Wolf, and Andruil, Goddess of the Hunt, whose patron animal is the hawk.

Divine Justinia and her attendants are speechless, and Varric is sure he glimpses an expression of appreciative awe from Cassandra Pentaghast.

"Quite the extravaganza you've put together," Hawke says conversationally, allowing all the social grace her mother and Tallis ever managed to beat into her drip through her words. "And all for my sake? I must say, I'm honored. And flattered. It's been a long time since anyone did something so grand for me."

Varric wants to chuckle but is afraid it will disturb the delicate balance of tension and grandeur suffocating the room.

"Champion Marian Hawke," says the red-haired Seeker – Leliana, Varric remembers, or Sister Nightingale. Hawke inclines her head with the grace of a queen.

"I think, dear ones," Hawke says, "that it's time we had a long-overdue discussion. Shall we reconvene at my estate after the festivites? I hear you've already made yourselves _quite_ comfortable."

Quick as a flash, Leliana vanishes from Justinia's side and reappears right in front of the throne, blade drawn; but Fenris is ready, and a black-gloved hand closes around her wrist, glowing lyrium visible even through layers of cloth. A twist and a sweep of a foot, and Leliana stumbles backwards down the stairs, just managing to keep from falling.

Varric has to admit that even _he_ would be a bit frightened of the elf as he is now, all black and silver cloth and fierce bearing and a hint of something wild and barely contained. The Dread Wolf indeed.

Hawke rises in a rustle of skirts and the chime of jewelry; Fenris' costume makes him look larger-than-life but Hawke is of a height with him, and the dress bares the sinewy strength of her arms and shoulders.

Fenris offers his arm and Hawke takes it; together the two of them walk straight past the Seekers and Justinia, who don't even move to stop them. Varric doesn't blame them. The finery does nothing to conceal the pair's martial prowess, even unarmed. Varric wouldn't put it past them to hold off the entire battalion of templars and Seekers in the Keep, especially with him, Daisy, Rivaini, Sunshine, Aveline, and the Antivan there to assist.

As they walk the length of the ballroom, Bethany, Merrill, and Aveline fall in behind them, followed by Isabela and Zevran, who the templars don't try to detain. Varric gives Hawke a shit-eating grin. She returns a confident smirk.

"Showy enough for you?" she asks under her breath as he takes his place at her side, opposite Fenris.

"I'm so proud," he replies, and together they leave Viscount's Keep like proper heroes.


	2. Seeker

Title: Seeker  
>Pairings: f!HawkeFenris, implied Isabela/Bethany  
>Warnings: swearing, endgame spoilers.<br>Summary: Hawke lives up to her title as Champion, and earns a new title she doesn't necessarily want.

* * *

><p>Hawke scowls.<p>

It's not that the Seekers haven't taken care of her estate; quite the contrary, in fact, which is why she's irritated. It doesn't feel like home, anymore, without the ashes overflowing from Bodahn's fireplace or the handprints on the chandelier. Even Isabela's graffiti has been buffed out of the stair banister.

Hawke supposes she should be grateful that someone's taken care of the manor, but it seems so unlived-in that she feels compelled to track bloody footprints all over the foyer, just for old times' sake.

Upon entering the study she finds all the storage chests for the weapons she hadn't taken with her when they fled Kirkwall, as well as a few stands of armor – the Weisshaupt Grey Warden armor she'd discovered in the Vimmark Chasm, the regalia of Enasalin – but most importantly, her custom Champion armor, all red fabric and leather straps and overcomplicated buckles.

Her 'pantheon' disperses across the house as Hawke quickly changes into the armor, snapping and wrapping with practiced ease. "'Regards,' Varric?" she calls. "Was that strictly necessary?"

She hears his familiar chuckle from just outside the study door. "I didn't think you'd actually come any other way," her best friend tells her. "And trust me, you're going to want to hear what these people have to say."

Hawke may not trust many people, but Varric is certainly one of the few she does. "If you say so," she grumbles, and then, "this had better be worth it."

She's just settled into the chair in the foyer when the first Seekers begin to trickle in. They give her a wide berth until Divine Justinia herself makes an entrance, flanked once more by Leliana and the black-haired Seeker.

Hawke stands, thinking she's insulted the Divine's authority enough for one day. "Divine Justinia," she says. "Welcome to my home."

"Champion," the Divine acknowledges. She's younger than Hawke would have guessed, no older than her mid-thirties, with a proud – even fierce – bearing that is somewhat surprising. "Despite this evening's… dramatics… we are pleased to find that you have returned."

She takes a seat opposite Hawke, who sits once more.

"I had hoped to speak to you face-to-face before matters escalated," Justinia says, dropping the authoritative 'we.' "Unfortunately, the attack on the Kirkwall Chantry took matters out of my hands."

Hawke meets the Revered Mother's gaze. She's prepared for this – had expected it. "The chaos caused at the hands of the mage Anders was a terrible tragedy," she says, stonefaced. "I don't have words to describe my feelings about the matter. As his friend and his ally, I do take partial responsibility for what happened that night. But please believe me when I say that I didn't expect it, and I would never have condoned it."

"I am aware of your situation, Champion," Justinia replies, glancing at the black-haired Seeker. "Sister Pentaghast has informed me of the unique circumstances surrounding the revolt of the Kirkwall Circle."

Hawke hears Varric cough slightly behind her, and hopes to the Maker that he didn't exaggerate anything important.

"Under her advice," Justinia continues, "it is my decree that you are not to be held accountable for the destruction of the Chantry and the death of Grand Cleric Elthina, as well as the many who died in the explosion. However."

Hawke resists the urge to hold her breath.

"Your decision to support the mages in their revolt against Knight-Commander Meredith has been the subject of some debate," Justinia says. "I should dearly like to hear the reasoning behind it in your own words."

Silence falls; Hawke suspects the anticipation in the room is not only from the Seekers but also from Hawke's own companions. She'd never discussed her decision with any of them – and none of them had asked – but she suspects they've been curious.

"Your Grace," Hawke begins. "I will not waste your time by explaining Meredith's descent into madness, or Orsino's corruption by blood magic. I'm sure you know all that. And if I'm to be completely honest, I wouldn't have sided with either of them had my hand not been forced."

She takes a deep breath. "My father was an apostate. My sister was conscripted to the Circle. I am no stranger to the plight of mages in Thedas. But my mother was killed by blood magic. I've fought more demons than most templars will ever encounter. I'm aware of the threat mages pose. But you know all that."

She looks away, trying to collect her thoughts. "With the Chantry burning, I could only think of one thing – that Anders was right." She holds up a hand against the murmur of surprise. "His methods were unforgivable. But I have known suffering, and I recognized it in the mages of the Kirkwall Circle. I understood that mages needed to be controlled. But I could not condone Meredith's methods. For that reason – and no other – I stood with First Enchanter Orsino."

She glances at Fenris, then back to Justinia. "When a figure of authority abuses that authority, it is the people's duty to oppose them. I believe that. That's why I stood against Meredith. That's why I killed Orsino. Flames, that's why I dueled the Arishok. This world has enough suffering without people abusing their power to hurt those below them."

Justinia nods. There is silence for a good minute, then she speaks once more. "I understand your reasoning," the Divine says, "even if I do not agree with your methods. It does not change the reason I asked you to return. You may not believe me, but I did not ask to see you to hold you accountable for your alleged crimes. Rather, I wish to ask your assistance."

"With what?" Hawke asks, taken aback.

"War, Champion," Justinia says. "The Circles have revolted. Even some of our own templars have left us. The Chantry has taken a severe blow, and there is more to come. There are rumors of mages amassing to the north, and should they turn against the Chantry, we would not be able to stand against them. Were that my only concern, I would not be here speaking with you – but there are also the matters of the Qunari and the Black Divine."

Fenris shifts uncomfortably. Hawke blinks. "I confess I've been out of touch for some time. The Qunari?"

"Are threatening war over the death of their Arishok," Sister Pentaghast answers in Justinia's stead. "And the assassination of one of their Ben-Hassrath, as well as the fate of one viddathari named Tallis."

Hawke wants nothing more than to bash her forehead into the wall, but steels herself. "And the Black Divine?"

"Ironically," Leliana supplies, "they are the only thing standing between us and the Qunari threat. But my sources say Tevinter is changing. There are groups gaining power that we simply don't know anything about – and there's frankly nothing we can do about it. We fear they may make another attempt at controlling Thedas."

Hawke whistles. "Frightening as this all is," she says, "I'm only one person. One person with a considerable influence, if I may, but one person nonetheless."

"Of course," Justinia says. "These issues are ours to confront. I would, however, like to ask your help with just one issue – one I think your particular talents and experiences make you suitable for."

Her companions go dead silent behind her, and suddenly Hawke knows exactly what the Revered Mother is about to ask.

"The mages in the north are uniting under the renegade known as Anders," Justinia says. "We suspect he intends to go to war. We would like you to track him down, and convince him otherwise."

"Do you even know where he is?" Hawke asks.

Justinia shakes her head. "We know only that movement has been reported to the north – but that's not enough to go on. We were rather hoping you would have an idea. You know him better than perhaps anyone else in Thedas. We would like you to take a small party, track him down, and convince him to stand down – by any means necessary."

"And if I can't find him?"

"We believe you will."

Hawke narrows her eyes. This has all the makings of a thinly-veiled threat, only Hawke can't figure out what the actual threat part is. She's sure she's not going to like it.

"Even if I do find him, what if he simply won't stop?" she asks.

Justinia's gaze is pure steel. "Then you are authorized to stop him forcibly."

Hawke has to admire the woman's guts, but she shakes her head. "It won't work. He'd die a martyr, and someone else would take up his cause."

Justinia sighs. "Champion, I cannot implore to you the importance of this mission. Should the mages turn on the Chantry, the Qunari and Black Divine will seize the opportunities to attack in our time of weakness. If I am to be perfectly honest, I do not care how the impending war is stopped. Which is why, should you accept this assignment, I will appoint you a Seeker, and you will have the freedom to wield the full authority of the Chantry without consequence."

Hawke can't help it this time – she sucks in a breath. She had never, ever considered that the Revered Mother might just be that desperate.

"I'm not even a practicing Andrastian," she points out, despite her misgivings.

"You see the predicament I am in," Justinia tells her. "Do I need to persuade you further?"

Every nerve in Hawke's body is screaming at her that this is a trap, that it's too simple, that she shouldn't accept. But the fact of the matter is, she and her companions are in enough trouble that becoming a Seeker just might be the only way Hawke can get them out of it. _And I'll be damned if Justinia doesn't know that._

"I need to speak with my friends," Hawke tells the Revered Mother. "I can't give you an answer until I do."

Justinia nods, and rises; Hawke follows her lead. "Of course," she says. "But I implore you to make haste. This matter cannot wait long. I will await your answer in Viscount's Keep." She nods to her guard, and the entire unit of them moves out of the Hawke estate until she is left alone with her companions.

She turns to face them, shaken. It's odd to see them all here in masquerade dress rather than their assortments of armor and clothing and weaponry.

Hawke heaves a sigh. "Thoughts?"

"She must be damn sure of your answer if she's willing to just leave us here to our own devices," Aveline says.

"I can't very well say no," Hawke admits. "We're in enough trouble that the only pardon we're ever going to get is from a Seeker."

"And I'm sure the Seekers are under explicit orders to _not_ pardon us," Bethany muses.

Isabela tosses her head. "Who says we need a pardon? Running was working fairly well for us, until we came back."

"No one wants to run forever," Merrill pipes up.

Fenris shrugs. "There are worse things." He fixes Hawke with his endless green stare. "Do you have a plan?"

"There's always a plan," Hawke says brashly. "I just haven't nailed down all the ends of it. Yet. But I'm thinking – there's no good reason to say no."

"I disagree," Isabela says. "Working under the Chantry? Reason enough."

"Justinia's got her own agenda," Varric agrees, "and it doesn't bode well for us."

"But she's telling the truth about the war," Aveline points out. "And I daresay none of us would put it past Anders to lead a full-scale rebellion."

"Unless he knows about the Black Divine and the Qunari," Varric says.

"Even if he did," Fenris interjects, "would he care?"

"Would you even be able to talk him out of it?" Bethany wants to know.

"Can you even find him?" Merrill asks.

Hawke throws her hands up over her head. "Enough!" she shouts. "Can everyone just please stop asking questions for one minute? I need to think."

Her friends fall silent.

Finally, Hawke speaks up again. "Thank you. Here's what I'm thinking. I'm going to accept Justinia's proposal."

"Is that wise?" her sister asks, but Hawke holds up her hand.

"Regardless of how wise it is," she says, "it would be decidedly _less _wise to not accept. That said, I'd like to take no more than four, myself included, to track down Anders."

She turns to Merrill. "I have a few ideas as to where he might've gone," she tells the little elf, "but I'm going to need someone that knows the outlying realms, and your Dalish have been all over the place – will you come with me?"

"Of course," Merrill chirps. "You'll need a mage anyway, and I know all the best routes through the mountains, so –"

Merrill's babble is cut off by Bethany, who is glaring. "Merrill's no healer," she says, "and I was already on my way to becoming a Senior Enchanter –"

"No," Hawke says firmly. "Absolutely not."

"But –"

"No," she repeats. "I won't put you in that sort of danger. Mother would never forgive me. As a condition of my acceptance, I will demand that Justinia grant you pardon from your involvement in the rebellion – but on the off chance she goes back on her word I want you far away from here –"

"Which is why I should come with you –"

"Which is why you need to go with Isabela," Hawke says gently, and turns to the pirate. "Izzy – will you take care of her? Get her far away from the Chantry?"

"Of course," Isabela promises. "I keep telling you, Beth, you've got to see Rivain in the summer, it's positively _orgasmic_."

Bethany flushes but doesn't lose her glare. Hawke meets it with her best Malcolm-Hawke-no-nonsense-face. "I won't change my mind on this, Bethany. You're not going."

As Bethany storms out of the room, Hawke spots Zevran, who hasn't said a word – in fact, Hawke had forgotten he was even there. "Zev," she says. "I of course won't ask you to help us anymore – you've been more than valuable already –"

"The pleasure is all mine, Champion," he replies smoothly.

Hawke cocks her head. "Although," she muses, "if you happened to run into your Warden friend… and happened to ask him for any help he can provide on behalf of the Chantry…"

"Wardens do not interfere with political matters," Zevran reminds her, "but it _is _their duty to protect Thedas, from Blights and other such nonsense. I shall see what wickedness my silver tongue and I can think up."

"Thank you," Hawke tells him. "Aveline –"

"I'd go with you…" Aveline begins. Hawke shakes her head.

"I know. You're needed here. Especially with no viscount. I understand," Hawke says. "Hold down the fort for me?"

Aveline salutes. "Of course, Hawke. But you'd better come back."

"Count on it," Hawke says, grinning.

Varric interrupts before Hawke can even say his name. "Don't even think of trying to talk me out of this –"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Hawke says sweetly. "Besides, I couldn't leave my darling Bianca behind."

"She's _my_ darling Bianca," Varric grumbles, "and don't you forget it."

Finally, there is only one companion left. Hawke meets his eyes. "Fenris –" she begins, but her words die on her tongue.

He smiles – that tiny, affectionate one reserved only for her – but his eyes are grim. Still, he nods. "I am yours, as always."

Hawke does her best to ignore Isabela's chuckle and Merrill's tiny squeal – and the funny jumping of her heart – and simply says, "Thank you."


End file.
